


linguacode

by love_in_the_time_of_kolinahr



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, Face-Fucking, Flirting, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 12:06:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18164984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/love_in_the_time_of_kolinahr/pseuds/love_in_the_time_of_kolinahr
Summary: Not for the first time, Ash wonders what the crew would think if they knew that their intrepid, wholesome captain likes to have his mouth used.





	linguacode

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Oriental_Lady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oriental_Lady/gifts).



> As per usual, no betas, no gods, no masters. This fic is inspired by [fanart from the incomparable orientalld](https://orientalld.tumblr.com/post/183400588147/can-i-post-it-here); the title is defined by [Memory Alpha](https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Linguacode) as “a translation matrix often employed when the universal translator is unable to facilitate communication.”

As time goes by, they learn each other’s tells; it should be more unsettling than it, in fact, is.  Ash gets to know the distinctive quirk of Chris’ head, the way Chris looks at his mouth and bites his own lip when he wants to kiss him.  He kisses Ash carefully, patiently, like he's trying to articulate something for which he doesn't have the words.

 

Ash watches the slate blue of his irises when he leans in, flickering up minutely, scanning his face before he gets too near, checking to make sure that yes, it’s okay this time, even if it was okay ten minutes ago, and yesterday, and the day before that. The way Chris really _looks_ at Ash before he leans in closer, smiles, lets his eyes flutter shut.  

 

Ash Tyler has: an ugly past, no future, enemies, scars, bad dreams; and Chris Pike must be: so fucking _stupid_ , because he doesn't appear to give a shit about any of that.  Instead, Chris stops by Ash's temporary quarters with coffee and a flimsy pretext, perches on his desk and rests one cool hand on the nape of Ash's neck while he signs off on Sec 31's daily security clearance.  When Ash looks up, Chris is staring at his mouth, his lower lip caught between his even, white teeth. Ash puts the PADD down and tugs him around to awkwardly straddle him in the chair.

 

They give themselves up to slow, drugged kisses.  Chris smells sharp and sweet, like the Douglas fir trees by Ash's old house in Issaquah, he tastes like bergamot from his morning cup of tea; his breath hitches when Ash puts a careful hand on the small of his back and he leans forward to press his spit-slick mouth against the fluttering pulse in Ash's carotid artery.  The chair groans in protest, and Ash groans for other reasons. Chris is a solid weight in his lap, and maybe, maybe, Ash can have this one thing—if only for a little while.

 

There is a wet, sweet sound when Chris finally breaks away and pulls off to cup Ash's face in both hands, studying it like he’s inspecting his handiwork.  At some point, Ash’s uniform shirt has gotten unzipped and tossed in a dark blue heap on the floor; Chris has kept his command gold on, the metal Starfleet pennant is cold against the taut, overheated skin on Ash's bare chest.  Ash squirms self-consciously, palms at the soft curve of Chris’ ass, his strong thighs, trying to get him to do something other than stare at him like—like _that_.

  
“I think,” Ash says, when Chris obligingly starts grinding back against Ash’s hard-on. “we should probably, uh—” _we should stop making out like fucking teenagers, should stop ignoring the obvious and unhappy conclusion of our relationship, should talk about what’ll happen after the mission is over, we should—_

 

“Sweetheart,” Chris murmurs. “Let me help.”

 

Telegraphing his intentions, he slides fluidly to his knees in front of Ash, gently shoulders his legs open, and waits, tilting his head up.  His nose and lips are all pinked up with stubble burn from Ash's beard; eyes half-lidded, glinting. Ash stares back, so dizzy with longing that it takes several disultory and confused moments to understand that Chris is waiting for him to speak.

 

All of his resolve crumbles to dust.

 

“Sir, you are cleared for landing,” Ash says tightly, with a sweeping, magnanimous hand gesture that earns him an eye roll and a pinch to the soft flesh of his inner thigh as Chris thumbs open the fastening of his pants.  Ash draws up with reflexive indignation, but what comes out of his mouth is a thready whine as he feels his briefs being tugged down, exposing his aching cock to the cool air of the room.

 

There's no nice way to say this: Chris Pike sucks dick like the M-113 salt vampire.  The first time that Chris took Ash into his mouth, it was all at once, just a couple of perfunctory licks before shoving his face forward until his nose pressed into Ash’s fly and the whole throbbing length of Ash’s cock was jammed into him.  Swallowed a few times, just to show off. Ash came before Chris even moved his tongue, with a bleat that he will continue to deny for the rest of his life.

 

Now, Ash squeezes his eyes shut when he feels hot, damp breath flowing over his cock; and when Chris closes his mouth around it, lips ringing his shaft just below the ridge of the glans to make a seal, wraps large, calloused fingers around the base, his consciousness dissolves, evaporates a little more with every swirl of that tongue.  Chris reduces his entire world to a tight, slick slide of hand and mouth, until Ash’s knees lock tight against Chris’ ribcage, until he’s clapping a hand over his mouth to stifle his low fractured cries, until he’s clutching desperately at the hand that Chris presses against his heaving chest to steady him.

 

“God, look at you,” Ash breathes shakily, when Chris pauses to fumble with his own pants, thumbs at the edge of his lips where they are stretched wide around the root of him.

 

Not for the first time, Ash wonders what the crew would think if they knew that their intrepid, wholesome captain likes to have his mouth used.  Chris’ eyes are unfocussed, his pupils have dilated, spread like inkblots to eclipse everything but the pale blue edges of his irises; when he takes himself in hand, he groans, a deep, urgent noise that makes Ash’s balls draw up tight in anticipation.

 

His stamina rapidly dwindling to nothing, Ash fists both hands in the shock of grey hair, yanks it as hard as he can and fucks up into his throat, and yeah, Chris is definitely is having some kind of religious experience between his legs—jerking himself off and sputtering, choking, gurgling, _moaning_ while Ash shudders, almost definitely gasping some weird, off-putting shit in Klingon, and spills everything he has into the event horizon of his mouth.

 

Afterwards, Chris hiccups wetly a few times, rests his head against Ash’s trembling thighs.  The sex-flush is still high on his cheekbones, his eyes are wet, his lips slick and swollen and bruised, his hair is an unmitigated fucking disaster; in this moment, Chris Pike is so beautiful that it hurts to look at him.  

 

Ash is still slumped in the chair, wholly obliterated, when Chris gets up from the floor a few minutes later; he’s only dimly aware of his spent dick being tucked neatly back in to his pants.  Chris disappears from view and comes back with his hair perfectly coiffed, looking for all the world like he hadn’t just been messily gulping air through his nose while gagging on Ash’s cock.  

 

The replicator goes off.

 

“Your coffee went cold,” Chris explains patiently, pressing a fresh cup into Ash’s shaking hands.  

 

Ash blinks down at it, incredulous. To add insult to injury, Chris picks up his discarded jacket from the floor and shakes it off, draping it over his shoulders; Ash's brain must be swimming in endorphins because he can't even manage to be annoyed at being fussed over. 

 

The PADD, laying quiescently on the desk until now, goes off; Chris scoops it up, frowning.

 

“Hate to eat and run, but I need to meet with Engineering before alpha shift starts,” he says brightly, dropping a chaste kiss on the sweat-damp crown of Ash's head, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

 

The guy is un _fucking_ belivable.

 

“You should come back during your lunch break,” Ash drawls belatedly, his synapses finally coming back online right as Chris is about to head out, “so I can have you for dessert.”

 

Chris stops dead in his tracks and whirls around, blushing.

 

“Specialist Tyler, that's…kind of _indecent_ , even for you.” 

 

Chris laughs, shaking his head, then pops his jaw as an afterthought, and disappears down the hall. The door hisses closed behind him.

 

Ash sips his coffee, trying not to smile, smiles anyway. 

**Author's Note:**

> “They have a drink named the Christopher Pike?”
> 
> “No, it's called The Ultimate Dicksucker.”


End file.
